The Observer
by yes way
Summary: No matter how hard he tried, Sherlock Holmes could not resist these covert observations. Post-Reichenbach. Not slash.one-shot.


Sherlock Holmes was standing behind the bushes and tombstones of the graveyard. He wasn't moving. He wasn't speaking. He was barely breathing. He had eyes only for the haggard man standing just two hundred meters away from him. He was John Watson. And he was staring somberly at the gravestone of the dead legend.

Sherlock may not feel emotions like everyone else, but he could very well read them, understand them if he tried. And now he was trying extra hard, because something was squeezing savagely at his chest as he watched his only friend in grief. And he couldn't understand why his mind always went back to this visits, or why his mind kept showing him John's stricken face. He tried one more time to observe the details surrounding the man that was John Watson. Anything that could give him a clue about the source of the discomfort in himself.

John was standing by the grave. Every line in his body screamed sorrow and pain. Even from this far, he could see that John's face was paler than normal.

John had not come to visit his grave for three months after the incident. And he had thought maybe it was all over for John. Maybe he hadn't cared that much. It had put his mind at rest. John was alive and not grieving. That was the only thing that mattered.

But he had been proved very wrong when three months later John came.

Mrs. Hudson was with him too. She looked frail and slouched. She started crying after a few minutes and had to excuse herself. When she left, John started talking. It concerned him to see his friend talk to an unanimated stone with that fervour. It was not like John.

And had he read his lips correctly? John had asked his return? He had never thought that he had been a friend for John as John had been for him. He wanted to be by his side one more time, but he didn't think John, or anyone for that matter, would wish his presence. It was hard to contain the loneliness without John. Then he thought, maybe that's what is called 'missing'.

John was asking for a miracle for himself. Sherlock could almost imagine his voice saying 'stop this.' Did he know it? How can he know and still be here? Still grieving?

It hit him all too late. His chest constricted even tighter if possible. John was definitely not coping well if he was ignoring that his friend was gone, if he still thought there was a chance for him to come back.

He saw John hide his face in his hand, small sobs wrecked his exhausted body. But quickly he held himself back together. Sherlock felt proud for the great self control he was witnessing. 'He will heal. He is strong.' he told himself, not for the first time.

A year later John still came to visit the gravestone regularly. The stone which bore the name Sherlock Holmes. John still came every week, and every time he talked while staring at the engraved name on the stone.

And Sherlock was standing in that same spot once more, observing his friend.

He had not been able to suppress the sensation, which now he knew was concern for, John when he heard molly's news. He had to see him. He had to risk another visit if he wanted to keep his mind focused. Now He had only one job to do. Find the next link in the chain of criminal, and eliminate it. But the thought of John, sobbing in his hands, haunted him everywhere he went. So he had come back once more.

He had not missed the the now prominent limp when he walked or the occasional winces as he shifted his weight to the cane to keep his balance. He was thinner than the last time, looked peaky, and the slight blackness under his eyes spoke of mild sleep deprivation. But he was the old still strong built John Watson he knew.

Every time he thought about John in that state, he was filled with a sense of deep discomfort that now he knew only John's presence by his side could erase. He promised himself, and the stricken man standing out there, that this hide and seek game would be over soon. A few more days and then everything could go back to normal.

But it had taken too long. And for each passing day, he blamed himself for the pain he was causing. After a year, even his logical mantra that _it was all for his safety,_ couldn't calm his racing mind, couldn't stop his supposedly non-existent heart from breaking a little more as he saw his best friend, his only true friend, stand in front of that stone and try to struggle bravely with his grief and sorrow.

And it perplexed him to no end. Never in his life had he a long lasting, nagging sensation that could distract his focus. He couldn't even understand why he was standing here right now or why he was trying to read John's lips.

'_John_,' He called the name in his mind. '_It's been one year, John. Why don't you let go? Why are you still suffering?'_

He wanted to go to him and finish all his pain, take the cane from him and remind him again that the pain was only psychosomatic.

He was the one person who had fixed John once. Then he reminded himself, not for the first time, that he was also the one who broke him, was still breaking him.

He couldn't take that much longer. He had to finish this faster than this. He couldn't risk these covert observations anymore. They were both in danger and that was unacceptable. He had to destroy Moriarty's web of criminals before it was too late.

If not for his own safety then for John's.

000

Each time, it was getting worst. Sherlock know it was no use watching his friend from far but couldn't resist it. His mind shouted risk for John's safety, but his heart dreaded John's well being. And John was the only subject in which his well organized brain didn't rule his doings.

John limped painfully as he came to the graveyard as many other days. _Two years and he still comes every week? Why isn't he moving on? What is his idiot of a therapist doing?_

Sherlock stood still in his hiding place, watching his friend. Trying to analyze his every movement, every twitch of his pale and sad face. He couldn't hear him, but he could read his lips. And John's voice echoed in his head, saying those words the real John was muttering.

_Why, Sherlock? Why did you do it? _

Sherlock realized that the anguished questions did not contain the former fervour. It seemed almost resigned. Defeated. It was not like John to sound so defeated. So broken. He closed his eyes and inhaled softly. He couldn't take it much longer.

He had promised his friend and he didn't take his own promises lightly.

000

It's been three years since the incident that forced him to go into hiding, when he eliminated the last of Moriarty's men. He had not seen John for one year, because he couldn't stand for one second John's deterioration. Couldn't stand and see John fade away little by little. So he had stopped his visits to the graveyard. But He still asked about John from molly. According to her, John was not doing very well.

Molly had told him about the things he already knew like the limp or the intermittent tremor in his hand. She also told him that John had not even for once talked about his late friend. That he had literally severed all his connections to them. She indicated that it was not a good sign if he is trying to deal with these kinds of emotions in isolation. She said that John still lived at 221B only because Mrs. Hudson begged him not to leave.

Sherlock remembered molly's exact words, 'Things aren't the way they were, Sherlock. He's not the John Watson you left three years ago.'

Now the long suffering was over. He was going to his friend. He wanted to mend his broken heart anyway he could.

000

It had been a long day at the hospital, but like always, John wanted to stay for the night shift too. He was tired. But three years of experience thought him that sleep could not help his bone weariness. His problem was more fundamental than a few nights lack of sleep.

The violent and debilitating nightmares stopped tormenting him as soon as he took sleep medicine. Ella insisted on that matter. But the medically induced unconsciousness did nothing for his constant lassitude.

He checked on a few more patients and prescribed appropriate medicine for some other. Sometimes things at the hospital were outright agonizing to see. But it all paled to the horror that awaited him in the dark and quiet flat. No sound, no company to talk to. Just him and the old Mrs. Hudson. Nights in that flat, alone, was his worst fear. Better to stay here over night. He would even prove useful.

So he went back to his office to rest his aching leg_. And maybe drink a black coffee,_ he thought.

One hour later, the coffee lost its stimulating effect and his eyes begin to shut closed. A nurse had told him to go home and rest before he dropped to the floor. But was it two hours ago or maybe three?

And now the head nurse was confronting him, telling him he should catch some shut eye before his lack of sleep caused any dangers to the patients.

She was right. Even in his dazed state, his mind accepted her reasoning. But couldn't they see that he had nowhere else to go? Couldn't they understand that he couldn't stand his flat alone?

When his mind caught up with him again, he was stepping out of a cab, in front of 221B. John exhaled somberly and entered the house.

A quick shower and then sleep pills. That was now his routine.

He was taking off his old black jacket when a deep voice startled him.

"You didn't use to come home late."

He turned around and located the thin figure on the sofa. It was Sherlock.

His mouth moved a few times but he was utterly speechless as Sherlock observed his reactions.

John stumble a step forward. "You…?"

"Yes, John. It's me."Sherlock stood up and closed the distance. "I know it's a shock for you, but I'm alive."

"you… you were … dead. I watched you fall, I took your pulse." John stammered. his voice was shaky, barley a whisper.

Sherlock took in his friends pale face. Eyes wide, mouth open. He was barely breathing.

"No John. You saw what I wanted you to see. It was all a trick."

"Why, Sherlock?" His breath hitched in his constricted throat. What came out was nothing like his voice. He had asked those words a thousand times. Now he could ask them from the dead man himself. "Why did you do this to me?"

"For your own protection… Moriarty had snipers." Sherlock's voice caught suspiciously. But John was only staring at the man in front of him. Not broken and not soaked in his own blood. He was not even blinking, as if he was afraid of waking up from the dream. "He wanted me dead. Do you remember? His men would have killed you if I didn't die. I had no choice." He couldn't take this. He felt weak and dizzy just trying to recall that day. His foot gave out and the floor came to meet him.

But two strong hands held him upright. He looked at the long fingers holding his arms, then at the concern face looking into his eyes. They looked so human. The look on that face was so unlike what he remembered of his friend.

"Sherlock?"

"You need to seat down now John."

Sherlock steered him toward the sofa, and he sat opposite him. John was still staring at him but his expression was now more of anger and hurt than complete disbelief.

He took a shaky breath. "You faked your own death? Why didn't you tell me the truth? Why couldn't you trust me? I thought we were friends!" his voice was steadier now.

Sherlock stood again, obviously in discomfort. "I do trust you. It was not that. Moriarty's men were observant. They could catch an unusual behavior. It would put you in line of fire."

John was calmer, but he was still pale and still breathed rapidly. There were two black ribbons under his eyes puffy.

"And I'm a worst actor than I'm a doctor." He said bitterly.

"No. I always had faith in your medical expertise. But if you knew I was alive, would you have gone and visit my tombstone every week?"

"I could fake that!" "It wouldn't have been the same."

John bent closer, eyes full of pain. "I was suffering! That's what made it different. You don't even get it, do you?" His voice broke at the end miserably. His eyes were burning with held back tears. All these anguish had been weighting him down for three years. He didn't allow three years worth of pent up emotions to burst out now. He was supposed to be happy now that his friend was alive. But the pain of his broken heart was not going to disappear with a wink of an eye.

The thing was that Sherlock did understand the pain of a broken heart. He just had chosen not to show it.

"I regret what happened, and I'm ready to amend for it."

John put his face in his hands and exhaled deeply. How many times had he wished to see his friend one more time, to hear that deep baritone voice explain an intelligent deduction of his.

"Explain." John said from behind his fingers. His eyes were still close but he could see Sherlock on the rooftop, could hear his voice…

"When we talked over the phone, I asked you to walk back the way you came." Sherlock said as if he just unfolded the mystery.

John dropped his hands. He chuckled half heartedly. _Same old Sherlock_, he thought.

"Yes, and I did exactly that."

Sherlock seemed to realize John's need for further elaboration.

"You were standing on the street, behind a shorter building. You could still see me, but you couldn't see where I fell."

"But you jumped," he said with some difficulty. "And there was blood, lots of it…" he broke off. It was still painful for him to even think about that day let alone talk about it. And he was talking to Sherlock Holmes of all people. That was so weird.

"Focus John. Remember what I told you 'it's just a magic trick.'"

John lost temper. "You didn't honestly expect me to work that out did you? You hanged up on me and jumped off the building! How could I possibly think about anything else, except that my best friend is…" John inhaled deeply around the lump in his throat. He continued after a few seconds.

"How did you fake it?"

"I had some help. Molly proved more than valuable. I really jumped off that building John, but didn't fall on the pavement."

"What? Molly Hooper?"

"And my homeless network. You probably didn't see the truck full of rubbish bags parking there. It was gone by the time you reached me. I calculated my jump to fall on those bags. Molly was there. The rest was simple. She shot me with correct combination of conotoxins' family to stimulate death. And then she pushed me out of the truck and I fell to the ground."

John shook his head as if to clear it. He couldn't take it all in so fast. "I don't understand… she gave you drugs?"

"The drugs wouldn't act fast enough and the pulse was still detectable by the time you reached me."

"What? I found no pulse!"

Sherlock just continued. Like so many other times when he explained some smart finding of his. "The cyclist who hit you, though I regret his harshness, was doing me a favour. I asked him to delay you so that the medical team could reach me first. Did you notice their abnormally fast answer to the call? Molly timed it perfectly. By the time you reached me, you were in shock and disoriented, the paramedics tried to take your hands off me. They were trying to keep you from taking my pulse, which was still there. Obviously, it had not been necessary. You were caught in the scene before your eyes and your mind couldn't take anything else in. Also it was partly due the hit you took to your head."

John was staring at him dumbfounded, but a small smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You went into awfully lots of trouble to convince the world that you were dead."

"It was the only way I could keep my friends safe." Sherlock said in a small voce, avoiding John's eyes.

That small display of regret was enough to heal the doctor's amazing heart.

He took a deep breath and smiled, wholeheartedly this time, and said in a gentle voice, "Don't .do. anything like that .ever. again without telling me first."

Sherlock looked at him, his face brightened like a small boy, and he smiled back. "deal."


End file.
